Christmas Is A Four-Letter Word
by Word Ninja
Summary: A sweet and fluffy little Christmas fic, in which everyone finds their Christmas spirit, nobody dies, and Derek is a small fowl. Kind of. Pre-slash, but in an "it's obviously going to happen" sort of way, so be aware.


Somehow, between the life-saving moments and the teen drama moments, which meant it was one of a very few moments, everyone decided that Christmas would be spent at Derek's house. Which meant a lot of other things too.

First there was the tree. Stiles volunteered his Jeep for transportation of said tree and volunteered everyone else to come along. Surprisingly, or maybe not, Lydia took over the task of finding the perfect tree. Which ended up being eleven feet tall _(because I measured Derek's living room_, Lydia says with her patented exasperated-huff-and-hair-toss, _and the space where the tree will go has twelve foot ceilings, and anything less and you might as well just use a pine branch, and merry fucking Christmas, Charlie Brown)_ and highly skilled in the art of warfare. At least, Stiles was pretty sure it was war; he and Jackson and Boyd all ended up scratched, bleeding, cursing, and in Stiles' case, spitting pine needles _(because of course he would have his mouth open when a branch snapped back in his face)._ The tree, eventually, sat crookedly, draped front to back of his poor Jeep, tailing so much extra off each end that driving was probably less than legal. Something about the way it sat there seemed smug to Stiles, or maybe that was Lydia's general aura drifting forward from the back seat. It was hard to tell when he was driving a Narnian forest down the street.

The perfect tree required the perfect decorations, and Lydia gathered Erica and Allison as her troops and marshalled them off to buy out Macy's. Stiles looked at the tree for a minute _(because Lydia was right, of course, damn it, the tree was perfect in the space she'd picked, never mind that the room hadn't been renovated yet, not a priority room like the kitchen, and the walls were still filthy black and dead grey. That tree should have looked ridiculous, full of green and aliveness and shedding little needles all over the floor, and instead it was just... right.)_ and when he looked away from it, he saw Derek across the room, staring at the tree too. Stiles' mouth was already open but he caught his brain before the speaking signals fired, and watched Derek watch the tree.

Derek's body language was weird. His face was doing something strange too, so Stiles knew immediately that this was a situation he needed to very closely observe. He needed to begin an Investigation. For many reasons, including but not limited to: his interest in self-preservation, and science, and werewolfy type things. Mostly because Derek was fascinating when he _wasn't_ being odd, and when he _was_ it was twice as bad. Stiles leaned casually back against the wall and mentally projected ninja stealth. He started at Derek's shoulders _(because he already knew everything those shoulders said, familiar ground would be a smart place to start, easier to decode the hidden meaning, step one in forming a hypothesis for the Investigation)._ They were tense, but slouched down somehow, pulled in by the arms wrapped around his chest. Which was different too, because it was like Derek was holding himself, maybe even hugging himself, which Derek did not do. He crossed his arms over his chest and stood straight and ready. He projected badass in almost all his postures _(which was hilarious the two times Derek had actually apologized to Stiles for something or other; Derek could say the right words, and in the right tone, but his body would be screaming the opposite like Derek couldn't apologize without his body trying to physically say I'm not sorry at all)_ but this posture was lacking all hints of badassness. This one was... and then Stiles hit on it the moment Isaac walked past the entryway behind Derek, on his way down the hall and not even looking over at them, and Stiles thought _smaller._ Derek was making himself smaller, pulling himself in, and it was...Stiles didn't know what it was because it made zero sense. Nothing Derek ever did, nothing about who he was, was about making himself less of a presence. Every situation they found themselves in, Derek drew attention purposely, not just with his ridiculous face but deliberately, stretching himself inside his skin somehow, making himself the target for whatever was coming their way. He did it instinctively, and Stiles had dedicated a couple hours in front of his mirror trying to figure out how Derek did it and mostly failing.

A Derek that was making himself smaller was off in every way. Plus the hugging arms thing, which Stiles knew meant self-comforting, which made no sense at all. Stiles was the one who'd battled the tree, not Derek, so why he'd be standing there like the tree was about to lash out in piney fury was frustratingly out of reach for Stiles.

Then Derek caught him staring and walked out of the room. Like that would stop Stiles from poking at this shiny mystery going on with his favorite puzzle. He let Derek leave though, because he'd long since figured out Derek would be lulled into complacency if Stiles didn't immediately question something. Stiles was pretty sure his mind had reached Jedi level, or at least steel-trap level. Either way, he'd let it bounce around in his brain while Derek did absolutely nothing about it because in his mind absolutely nothing had even happened _(because Stiles just knew that Derek would push it away until he really believed it was away, gone, vanished into the ether)._

Later that evening, when Lydia came back with enough decorations to make even Buddy the Elf happy, and Jackson was finished cursing at the long strands of multi-colored lights that Stiles had insisted on _(because he just never understood white lights, not that they weren't okay and fine and all, but-why use just one color when you could have many?)_, they put everything on the tree, weaving in and out and around each other like Maypole dancers, which made Stiles laugh, but only to himself, in his head, because he enjoyed the casual bumping of elbows as Boyd and Isaac passed him, holding dainty, fragile ornaments in their big hands, and brushing his fingers across Allison's shoulders, Lydia's hair, as he stepped over them to reach an empty space in need of an ornament. It's what Stiles loved about holidays. An excuse for a bunch of people you care about to get together and spread the love. Not in a sexy way, just...people seemed to hug easier on holidays, clap each other on the shoulder more, kiss cheeks and leave lipstick marks, and Stiles was a deeply physical person, and if he wanted to roll around in all that casual affection, it was his business. He smiled when Derek's knee pressed against his side as he fiddled with the tree skirt, smiled at the ground so Derek could pretend he was placing some tinsel just so, because the holidays were for being generous.

Once the tree was finished, they decided to have a party to celebrate. Stiles had never celebrated decorating a Christmas tree, but he absolutely agreed with Erica and Danny when they suggested it _(because between the sheer size of the tree, the orders Lydia barked out with impunity and the uncomfortably nice way the pine smell and Derek's not-frowning face went together...Stiles felt like he'd accomplished something important, and a night of relaxation to preen over his work sounded perfect.)_ They made sugar cookies in silly shapes, everyone's sweatpants and tee shirts dashed with bits of flour and some red icing in Scott's case, and somebody started playing a Frank Sinatra Christmas album and there was a little singing along, and a little drinking, and a lot of laughing. At the end of the night, Stiles decided that calling it a party probably wasn't the right term. It was more like a camping trip with your best friends. A camping trip with your _family_, and that was the right term, Stiles thought, where everything was just right. He watched Derek check the locks on all the doors and windows before he went to sleep, mostly hidden in his place on the middle of the living room floor _(because all of them wanted to sleep in front of the tree; when the only lights in the house were from the tree, the black walls were okay, better even, because it was like there was nothing but those warm twinkling lights, the colors filling out the empty spaces, lighting over their skin and hair as they slept this way and that on the floor, but always near to someone else)_ and when Derek paused at the bottom of the stairs, and looked back into the living room, across all the people who made him a family again, Stiles let Derek see when their eyes caught-that Stiles knew he cared about those people, and that he was happy, or close to it, and that it was okay that Stiles saw that. He hoped that was what he got across; it was hard to tell _(because Derek in the dark was a different thing entirely, a shadowed blade of sinew and grace, something Stiles had already Investigated, but Derek in the colored lights of the tree was a new thing. They made him young, and Stiles wondered about little Derek waking his parents up at the crack of dawn for presents, and it was a beautiful thought, but really painful too, because this Derek wouldn't be waking them up at dawn with excited jumps and shouts and hollers, and Stiles thought that was just such a shame.)_

A week after the slumber party, Stiles was wandering aimlessly through the mall when he saw the most hilariously inaccurate werewolf bobblehead in the window of a novelty store. He bought it without a second thought, but when the second thought hit, it was a few minutes of trying to figure out what he should get everyone else and how his bank account would stand up to that many gifts, and then the third thought was right on its heels.

Secret Santa took place at Derek's, in front of the tree, of course, and everyone had been strangely intense about it, but in a way that was also really funny; not smiling as they reached into Derek's old baseball hat to take a slip of paper, arms curled around it like inmates eating lunch, poker faces in full effect as they read the name silently for whom they'd get a gift. It had the air of some sort of ancient ritual for a secret society instead of just a silly game, and Stiles thought that was awesome. He also hoped it would be an annual event, and glanced at Derek to see if that was possibly a thing that could happen.

Derek tucked his paper slip into his pocket, and when his eyes stopped tracking over everyone for a second _(because Derek was a mother hen, constantly counting his chicks for a lost one. Stiles commented on it once, by way of calling him Derek Quail, and referencing the fowl family in Bambi, and Derek had looked genuinely horrified, as if being compared to something with feathers was a scary story werewolf kids heard from their older werewolf siblings)_, he glanced over at Stiles and smiled. Stiles smiled back, and it was nice, because that one was easy to read. That one was the _I'm happy, that's all smile_, and Stiles listed it pretty high on his list of favorites. There was nothing more to it, nothing less; just one of those moments when you're happy through and through and you smile because you can't not smile.

Stiles decided then to plan something else festive, because who knew when Derek had last enjoyed some holiday spirit, for one thing. For another, Stiles selfishly loved all things holiday related, and Derek's happy smile. For one more, whatever Derek was internally freaking out about _(because Stiles knew he was, he'd been collecting data since the shrinking Derek incident, and even when he looked pretty into the whole Christmas thing they'd filled his house and time with, sometimes he also looked a little unsure, a tiny bit afraid, slightly concerned. Stiles will get there, he'll figure it out; he's patient, and has innumerable skills at his disposal.)_

Each of them had obligations to their families, their blood relatives family, not their human/werewolf family, for the actual day of Christmas, so they decided that the day after would be their time to gather. They would exchange their gifts then, and have a real, grown up Christmas dinner, because when Derek, Isaac, Boyd and Jackson were in the kitchen together, magic happened. Stiles wasn't sure if that's a werewolf thing or part of the gorgeous-supernatural-type-dude package, or what, but sometimes he'd sneak into the kitchen _(because non-cookers weren't allowed, Derek had growled the first time he'd tried to help, but he'd sit really still in the corner until he was mostly forgotten about, because silent Stiles wasn't a thing people were really familiar with, so when he was, it was kind of like an invisibility cloak)_ and just watch them. Mostly to watch the way Derek interacted with each of them. Stiles was surprised when it turned out to be Derek and Jackson he enjoyed watching the most. They only spoke to each other in terse, sarcastic bursts, but then they'd look at each other over a joke no one else got, or something they each saw, and their eyebrows would talk to each other, and they'd roll their eyes and it was fascinating. Stiles could tell Derek respected Jackson's ability to get some really great zings in, and that Jackson was impressed Derek didn't take his shit. They were the cutest thing to watch ever, and Stiles liked basking in the warm fuzziness of their burgeoning bromance. _(Because basking sounds so much better than voyeurism, when he finally left the kitchen to report back to the girls, who were curious about what kind of wine they should get, and Danny, who got a slightly pervy pleasure from having all those ridiculously good looking guys cook for him and always refused to help even though he could bake like nobody's business. Stiles totally got where Danny was coming from.)_

Stiles woke up Christmas morning and smiled into his pillow. His clock said 6:55, which was five minutes too early for the officially sanctioned wake up time of 7 am he and his dad agreed on after Stiles was old enough to tell time. He jumped up, jumped on his bed, waved his arms, crowed a few times, then stumbleran down the hall to beat on his father's door. Christmas morning was one of the things that had come back to him since his mom died. First everything was gone, and then little by little, things started coming back, like it being okay to smile at memories of her instead of crying, and it being alright to enjoy his birthday without feeling guilty. Christmas morning wasn't there for a few years, but then it came back, and Stiles was fully recovered on the whole holiday thing. The next part of the ritual was to shake every present he could touch on his way to start coffee for his dad, and a giant mug of hot chocolate for himself. The giant mug was key, because the hot chocolate only filled the bottom third, and he can fill the rest up with the whipped cream. They spent the morning opening presents, stretching out on the couch to watch the required viewing of at least two rotations of A Christmas Story while it was marathoning, eating more apple pie than either of them was comfortable with _(because Melissa McCall baked once a year, and that was Christmas, and it was too delicious not to eat until they couldn't breathe, so thank god she only baked annually.)_ They pulled out old photo albums and laughed at the picture of Stiles at four, ignoring the electric four-wheeler he'd opened in favor of crawling into the huge box, just like they'd laughed at it every year when his mom was alive. Then they looked at pictures of her, of all of them, and laughed over some, and hugged over others. They didn't cry really, not anymore, because that was turning into a nice thing too, not a dreadful chore but something he'd look forward to one year, like hot chocolate and apple pie. He wasn't quite there yet, and his dad wasn't either, so each let their weight lean against the other, shoulders down to elbows, steady and firm. When it got dark outside, and they were pleasantly exhausted from the day, they shared a highball of whiskey in silence, his father passing it over to him without a word, Stiles taking it in the same silence, sipping companionably as if that wasn't something new they'd do each year now. Bed was after, and when Stiles was once again face down in his pillow, he smiled hard for a minute because he got to have it all over again the next day with the rest of his family.

He reached Derek's just when dusk was settling over Beacon Hills, and there was no snow on the ground, and most of the storefronts hadn't turned on their strings of lights yet, but it was still heart-stirring somehow, in a way only hometowns can be. It looked peaceful, safe. The kind of place where nothing bad ever happened and people just get to enjoy Christmas. He knew it wasn't real, but for a moment he let it be.

Everyone else was already there, the guys finishing up in the kitchen, Danny setting the table at Lydia's strict instructions, Scott and Allison mooning over each other under a door frame someone tacked plastic mistletoe to, Erica waving a disposable camera every which way and clicking constantly, and Stiles stood in the door for a minute just taking it in. When the food was ready, they all helped carry it out, and it took everyone three trips because werewolves eat a ton of food, and the humans would too, because that's practically a holiday requirement.

There was a moment that went from easy to awkward to painful in seconds: when Scott went to sit in the third chair down the right side of the table _(not because of any hierarchical seating arrangement, just because it was the last empty one besides the chair at the head of the table, and because it was next to Allison, so...duh)_ and Derek made an abortive gesture before dropping his arm and moving to stand at that head of the table. Everyone else was seated already, and of course they'd left that chair for Derek (because that's how they all moved around him now, like spokes in a wheel) and Stiles just knew.

Derek didn't sit at the head of the table, of course he didn't, because probably that was where Derek's dad sat. Stiles could see a different arrangement in his head, like a barely opaque Photoshop overlay, with mostly blank faces on the bodies filling the seats, but some there, and Derek's dad at the head chair, his mom next in the first chair on the right, then maybe Laura, or Peter, and then Derek, in the third chair. Scott's current chair. And Derek looked stricken, and everybody saw it and they knew, too. But then Lydia, on Derek's left, took his hand, and a half a second later, Isaac took his other hand, and somehow a chain reaction started. Like a wave down a baseball stadium, except with hand holding, all the way to the bottom of the table, where Stiles ended up holding Danny's hand on one side and Jackson's on the other. Derek sat, and he looked uncomfortable but he didn't pull his hands away, and Stiles wondered if he should say something. He wasn't not really a pray-before-meals type, and he didn't think any of them were, but then he met Derek's eyes and saw he didn't need to say anything at all.

They all looked around, taking a minute to meet each other's eyes in silence, and nobody spoke but everyone said _thank you_, and _you're welcome_, and _I've got your back_, and _I love you guys_, and _merry Christmas_. They all let go and then the talking started, about who got what presents, and who wanted to play with whose new toys, or wear whose new clothes, and Stiles was going to burst apart at the seams with happiness.

He looked at Derek again, and when Derek nodded, a small smile tugging the corners of his mouth up, Stiles felt like he could safely close his Investigation. Derek was going to be okay, things were coming back to him, just like Christmas morning came back to Stiles. Derek was going to be okay, and Stiles was going to be okay, and all of them, in that moment, were going to be just fine.


End file.
